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A TROOP OF THE GUARD, AND OTHER 
POEMS. Square i6mo, $1.10 net. Postage 
extra. 
THE WOMAN OF CORINTH. lamo, $1.00 tut. 
Postage 8 cents. 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
Boston and New York 



POEMS AND BALLADS 




POEMS AND 
BALLADS 



By 

Hermann Hagedorn 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

MDCCCCXII 






$> 



K-:^N-^' 



COPYRIGHT, T9I2, BY HERMANN HAGEDORN 
ALL RIGHTS RESKRVED 

Published October IQ12 



€CI,A327599 



TO 

DOROTHY 



The thanks of the author are due the Editors of the fol- 
lowing magazines for permission to reprint the subjoined 
poems: The Atlantic Monthly y *' Death and the Lord," 
"Rest at Noon"} The North American Re'vienVy "Doors," 
"The Three False Women of Llanlar"} The Century^ 
"Discovery," "Fifteen"; The Bookman, "The Boy and 
the Mother," "Song at Ending Day," and, under a dif- 
ferent title, "L' Envoi"; and The Outlook, "Music at 
Twilight," "The Keepers of the Nation." 



CONTENTS 



THE D^IUJEL .... 


3 


DEATH AND THE LORD . 


. 12 


BROADWAY .... 


. 14 


WINGS ..... 


. 15 


MONNA VITA .... 


. 22 


DOORS ..... 


. 26 


abdtkt.-the-syrian's chant of the kiss , 


27 


THE LAST FARING 


. 30 


THE WILD ROSE 


35 


LANEER 


37 


SONG 


45 


DISCOVERY .... 


46 


A CHANT ON THE TERRIBLE HIGHWAY 


47 


CONVERSE OF ANGELS . 


51 


SONG AT ENDING DAY . . . , 


52 


SONG AFTER RAIN . . . , 


54 



IX 



CONTENTS 

THE THREE FALSE WOMEN OF LLANLAR . 55 

REST AT NOON . . . . .62 

ARAB SONG . . . . .64 

MUSIC AT TWILIGHT . . . .66 

THE WOOL GATHERER . . , .67 

THE CHASM . . . , .68 

THE COBBLER OF GLAMORGAN . . .69 

HOLIDAY ...... 82 

FIFTEEN ...... 85 

THE RHAPSODY OF ABDIEL-THE-SYRIAN FOR 

HIS BELOVED . . . . .86 

THE MARKETPLACE IN PIEVENICK . . 92 

THE duke's LADYE . . . .93 

THE FIGHTING SCRIBE OF ION A . . .96 

*'0UT OF THIS CAGE MY BODy" . . 99 

MEMORY ...... 100 

THE SICKBED ..... 101 

ANNIVERSARY . . . , .102 

THE PEDDLER '. . , . .103 



CONTENTS 



THE DEVIL AND ST. DON AT 

THE HUMMINGBIRD 

THE LAST WABANAKI . 

THE BOY AND THE MOTHER 

THE CRIER IN THE NIGHT 

THE KEEPERS OF THE NATION . 

ON THE senate's REPUDIATION OF AN HONOR 

ABLE COMPACT 
EPITAPH .... 
THE VIGIL OF PADRE JUNIPERO 

l'envoi .... 



105 
110 
112 
117 
120 
124 

125 
126 
127 
132 



POEMS AND BALLADS 



Hinauf ! Hinauf strebt' s. 

Es schweben die Wolken 

Abwarts, die Wolken 

Neigen sich der sehnenden Liebe. 

Mir ! Mir ! 

In eurem Schosse 

Aufwarts ! 

Umfangend umfangen! 

Aufwarts an deinen Busen, 

Allliebender Vater! 

Goethe. 



THE INFIDEL 

(Mexico, 1867) 

High in the palace a light burns at the fall of 
nighty 

Burns every eve of the year like the patient lamp in 
the nave; 

And twoscore years have passed^ but the fame out- 
lasts the last^ 

As the grave outlasts the flame ^ and love outlasts the 
grave. 

I WAS a rebel when they brought 
Their pale Archduke from over sea. 

I was a rebel and I fought 
The rotting ages to be free I 

I was a rebel, and my thought 

Strode mid the shapes of things to be. 

Wild years were those, and I was young. 

I questioned all things, low and high. 
The Devil or Saint on every tongue, 
3 



THE INFIDEL 

And each glib, comfortable lie 
To which the ardent faithful clung 
For death-bed solace by and by. 

Devil and saint ! Each from his perch 
Twittered and wooed me. But I trod 

A hill-road of my own, in search 
Of days beyond our six-foot sod. 

The Devil I laughed at, but the Church 
I loathed. And yet I had my God. 

The Church ! They scrawled my infant mind 

With Jesuitics o'er and o'er ; 
They strove to make me deaf and blind, 

Lest I should do what once before 
Prometheus did for humankind 

And leave a torch at each hut-door ! 

They foiled me there. But when the war 
Broke like a wreath of flames about 

Their dreaming fop of Miramar 

And burned, and would not be put out — 

I was the whirlwind and the star, 

The brain, the sword, the strong redoubt. 
4 



THE INFIDEL 

Yet, while I battled for the gleam 
That lit To-morrow's hopeful eyes, 

Pale Yesterday her dying dream 

Showed forth in such alluring guise, 

Surely I could not help but deem 
That vision fair beyond surmise. 

A noblewoman bred in Spain : 

More exquisite than they who bum 

Their loves out in a flash of pain 

With us. Like rose-leaves in an urn 

Her love was, as in sweet refrain 
She begged me to my saints return; 

She begged, and all the glory dead 
Of what was once the Faith of Christ 

Shot like a pang through heart and head. 
And all I loathed, emparadised 

In her high love, seemed wine and bread; 
And hollow all that once sufficed. 

From sea to sea through Mexico 
From Yucatan to Rio Grande 
With flaming ploughshare, row on row, 
5 



THE INFIDEL 

I harrowed deep my fallow land; 
And ever, comet-wise, aglow, 

An instant flashed on her. Her hand 

A red church-lamp kept ever lit 
In the deep window-arch for me ; 

And every twilight she would sit 
And wait ; and far off I would see 

The shadows of the church- lamp flit 
Across her beauty balefuUy. 

I went, I came; again I went. 

" Come once again, and I will wed 
My infidel ; and go content 

Wherever God shall lead," she said. 
And over us with cloying scent 

The lamp her scarlet blessing shed. 

I went, but as I rode once more 

Down from the mountains to my mate 

Behind, the battle won ; before. 
My dear love, beautiful, elate — 

A headlong rider came, who bore 
Her letter : " At the postern-gate 



THE INFIDEL 

" To-night stand sentries. Draw not sword ! 

Your foes buzz round our doors like flies. 
Your foes who are my friends ! Dear Lord ! 

I give you much. So, love, be wise. 
And bear at heart this sentry- word : 

Thy Faith^ thy Church I All else is liesf'' 

Beneath it all her name, beneath 

Her name, a swift, large-limbed : " Come 
soon ! " 
I stirred my horse. A dusty heath 

Stretched right and left ; above, a moon 
Hung like a soul cold after death 

In the appalling blue of noon. 

Thy Faith, thy Church I A girlish whim 
To make the portals where her love 

Dwelt in far chambers, sweet and dim, 
On such resounding hinges move. 

All else is lies I The cherubim 

Some day that argument might prove. 

I galloped, and my heart ablaze 

With love and what the dark should bring 

7 



THE INFIDEL 

Laughed. " Lies P What matter ? Faith P A 
phrase ! 

Into the sentry's teeth I fling 
The eight dead words — the end repays 

Full-brimmed the momentary sting." 

I galloped. Now a heavy wood 

Enveloped me in stifling air. 
Thif Faith, thy Church 1 I felt my blood 

Chill, and like pin- pricks tingle, where 
The memories dwelt. It was not good 

To stir the tiger sleeping there. 

I galloped. To the dusty west 

The sun bent. " Does she test me thus ? 

Her faith? 'T is high. Her Church? The 
test 
Is childish and ungenerous ! 

All else is lies ! What priests infest 
Her chambers, making sport of us ? " 

I galloped on. The moon's pale wraith 

Brightened, and from the vales, the night 
Like incense rose. Thy Churchy thy Faith I 
8 



THE INFIDEL 

The ardor died in my delight. 
I checked my horse, I held my breath. 
In dusk below me, cool and white 

And mute, save for the dogs who barked 

Hungr)^, incessant, and a bell 
Tolling a death — her City, sparked 

With light like fields with asphodel, 
Lay, and upon a knoll I marked 

The red church-lamp I knew too well. 

I walked my horse. What scarce had seemed 
More than the pang we pay for bliss 

Gladly — grew monstrous, till I deemed 
All heaven at handclutch with the abyss ; 

The only God I knew, blasphemed. 
And sold to Caiaphas with a kiss. 

Thy Churchy thy Faith I And must I drown 
The bold, exploring thoughts, devise 

No more my webwork reaching down 
'Neath hell, and up beyond thy skies ? 

Forget all else save how the clown 

Juggles three spheres ? Aii else is lies ! " 
9 



THE INFIDEL 

A clatter and a spark of hoofs 

On pavement — twice a hundred yards, 
White walls and grated windows, roofs 

Like cards laid flat on walls of cards — 
Her house ! All else is lies I " The proofs 

Of that be in the sentries' swords ! " 

I tied my horse, and soft I crept 

Through shadow to the shadowed gate. 

High up, the scarlet church-lamp kept 
Its vigil. Like a voice, " I wait," 

Its flicker spoke. . . . Two sentries leapt 
From blackness, gloom made animate, 

Leapt and laid hold on me ! I flung 

Back from their clutch and tore my blade 

Forth, but they held my arms and clung 
Fiercely. We scuffled. Now we swayed 

Into the moon-path, now we swung 
Against the postern, till it made 

Answer from groaning hinge and lock. 

" Password ! " one gasped, and one, "Let be ! " 
I laughed, and with a wrench, a shock 
10 



THE INFIDEL 

Of head on head, my blade swung free ; 
Thrust, thrust again. They fell. A block 
Of granite falls less perfectly. 

My hand was on the postern's latch. 

" Truth wins," I cried, " I win, and sell 
No tittle of my soul to snatch 

My bird from her cage ! " But it befell 
My eyes went where a lamp kept watch 

To pilot home an infidel. 

I gazed ; my hand dropped, and I stood 
Rigid before the unlocked door, 

In spiritual widowhood 

Sudden as death, for in my core 

I knew, and know, I never could 
Enter that happy postern more. 

Night, like a care that slowly lifts 
Its weight from the too laden mind, 

Rose in slow beauty. Silver rifts 

Came where she went, and cooling wind, 

Dawn, and the day with shining gifts. 
I rode, and cast no look behind. 



DEATH AND THE LORD 

Death touched the Winter's arm, and spoke: 
" Faith, you are pleasing in my sight. 

A thousand of this beggar-folk 

Knocked at my Iron Gate last night." — 

" I starved the fools that paid for fire, 
I froze the fools that paid for bread. 
I have my human helpers, Sire." — 

Death nodded, and " Well done," he said. 

"The old," quoth Death, "the white of hair. 
That lived their span and seek the grave — 
What prize are those ? But these were fair. 
And all were young, and most were brave. 

"I saw them stiffen in the gloom. 

Waiting, wide-eyed, the tardy dawn. 
The huddled dozen in the room — 

How should they know that one was gone ? 
12 



DEATH AND THE LORD 

*' They crouched all silent, black and grim. 
And once I thought a woman prayed 
Through tears a cursing prayer to Him 
Of whom I once was half afraid. 

" Poor Jesus Christ ! A gift to me 

They snared Him, scourged Him, nailed Him 
high. 
Yet are there times I seem to see 

His Face, and wonder, Did He die P 

" That was the only Face that e'er 

Woke aught in me but scorn of men. 
Fools, fools, mankind! Who will not bear 
That Face against my hosts again ! 

" By all the stinging tears that flow 
Because of me, by all the grace 
That might have been on earth, I know 
I could be bondman to that Face." 

Death plucked the Winter's sleeve, and spoke; 

" Christ is not here. Your work is light. 
A thousand of this beggar-folk 

Send whirling to my Gate to-night." 



BROADWAY 

How like the stars are these white, nameless faces ! 

These far innumerable burning coals ! 
This pale procession out of stellar spaces, 

This Milky Way of souls ! 
Each in its own bright nebulae enfurled, 
Each face, dear God, a world ! 

I fling my gaze out through the silent night — 
In those far stars, what gardens, what high halls, 

Has mortal yearning built for its delight. 
What chasms and what walls ? 

What quiet mansions where a soul may dwell ? 

What Heaven and what Hell ? 



14 



WINGS 

Hark ! The wind ! 

Pile higher the fire, fasten the blind. 

It knocks like a feared guest, 

It mocks like a troll, 

It calls like a weird guest 

Come for a soul. 

Fasten the blind, the sashes — 

Up the chimney, the wind 

Whirls the ashes. 

The flames leap like dogs behind — 

Pile high the logs — 

The wind ! 

Listen ! Afar 
In the terrible caves 
Where the lost gods are 
In prisons and graves. 
Where Death the herder 
Huddles his pack — 
The bloodhound, the brach, 
Demoniac war 

15 



WINGS 

And famine and murder, 

White wolf and black — 

Hear ! Afar 

In the hoar nadir 

Of a snuffed-out star, 

Ymer the giant 

Has loosened his rage; 

The grim, the defiant, 

Has opened the doors 

Of the terrible cage 

Where tumult roars 

Through age and age 

Like the sea a-wage 

On iron shores. 

He has lifted high 

The cage in his arms. 

Wings ! 

How they flutter to fly 

The unborn storms ! 

Back, bolt and chain! 

Wings ! 

Woe to the lands 

Till ye come again, 

Ye wings ! 

16 



WINGS 

Warning, oh, comrades of gales. 
Sons of the tides ; 
Mourning, oh, pitiful brides, 
Watching for sails ! 

Hark ! What cry 

Through the dark ? 

First a sigh, but, mark. 

The topmost bough 

Sees wings, and shivers. 

And the rose-branch swings 

And quivers. 

Now a petal falls. 

Wings ! And what now ? 

What murmurs the bush ? 

And bough, who calls ? 

Now a hush. 

But, oh, hark ! The cry 

On high through the dark : 

Wings from the north, wings ! 

Wings, wings and wings behind - 

Ymer the king's 

Birds of the wind ! 



17 



WINGS 

The wind ! 

Fasten the shutter, 

Bolt the blind. 

The wings are a-flutter — 

Pile higher the hearth; 

The licking flames utter 

Things not of earth. 

How they climb 

Toward their comrades, the birds ! 

What spells of old time. 

What magical words 

Reply with their mutter 

Of ancient things 

To the moan and the cry. 

And the terrible flutter 

Of wings ? 

Hush ! The wild legion ! 
What riot, what rush ! 
Tree-top and brush 
They lay their mad siege on. 
And over and over they wheel — 
Wings ! 

Bend to the rover and reel ! 
18 



WINGS 

Wings ! 

Chaos opposes ! 
Spill out your gems ! 
Scatter your roses, 
Fairest of stems. 
Wings ! 

Bend, oh, ye branches. 
Like thieves afraid 
In the wake ! 
Now blanches 
My tender maid, 
My olive, to break. 
Sway, eucalyptus. 
Like masts ; 
Fling your boughs 
Like rent sails 
In the gale's 
Winged blasts. 
Ymer hath whipped us 
His gauge on our brows. 
Hark ! The carouse 
Of his inchoate rage ! 
Wings ! 

Over and through and back, 
19 



WINGS 

Whirl, wings ! 

Anew the ruthless attack 

Hurl, wings! 

Break, eucalyptus, 

My brother ! 

The wings have another 

Soul for their wage. 

Hear it ! The wind ! 
Wedge the shivering door, 
Tie -firmer the blind. 
Wings ! 

The infinite sorrow 
Of broken things 
Clutches my spirit. 
Hear it ! 
Voices of fire 
Crying high jubilee ! 
Hear it, the roar ! 
Do they know there shall be 
Fresh bodies to-morrow 
To lay on the pyre ? 
More wood and more ! 
Bring oak and bring redwood, 
20 



WINGS 

Bring sycamore, cypress ! 

The imps, where they lie, press 

Out as the dead would 

From graves to attain 

The air and the stars 

And their comrades again. 

Wings ! 

In chimney and eaves 

What cityful grieves 

In pitiful murmurings ? 

Wings ! 

Do they seek to speak ? 

Draw closer, my mate ! 

They come too near. 

Their woe, their hate I fear ! 

Through the night afar, they 

Cry, cry wild things ! 

Wings ! 

Who are they ? 

Who are they ? 



MONNA VITA 

Coquette ! And is it flattery you ask ? 
A chanted crown, a seven-stringed applause, 
Since you press thus the lyre into my hands 
Here by this fountain-side, while hour by hour 
In ancient thickets wonderfully sings 
The holy nurse of hearts, the nightingale, 
And overhead high wheels the playing hawk ? 
Must it be praise, or may I venture truth ? 

She smiled, and then she spoke. " Tell me your 
guess." 

Quiet, then, quiet ! Play not so your eyes 
On flower and tree-top, earth, and through the blue 
Unto the sleeping stars. Let the babes sleep. 
And let me have those eyes a winged minute 
To read, to read ! A-field once more ! Coquette ! 
Give me your hand, then, let me read the lines. 
'T is a Minerva's hand, a woman's hand, 
Though from a helmet sprung. Your sire was Jove — 
King, wizard, slipper-serf, philanderer, god. 
22 



MONNA VITA 

He 's dead. Nous avons change tout cela — 
And we have better wizards, better gods; 
You only stay unchanging. Quiet, now ! 
Twitch not your hand. Now that I hold it thus 
I '11 not release it till it tells me all 
A hand can tell. A hand ! Could I but see 
Your eyes ! Booh ! Hide them, then, who cares ? 
Coquette ! 

You have more lovers than the earth has men, 
For even the unfleshed must love you still. 
(There speaks the lover, now the oracle !) 
Somewhat you love your lovers ; give, withhold. 
As gods and sovereigns may, as women must. 
Or lovers will grow bold, and spurn the love. — 
Is it to keep the aging ardor warm 
You save sometimes your kiss for funerals ? — 
You love not much, I think, the too hot heart 
That would lay wifely reins and drudgeries 
On those immortal shoulders ; nor not much 
The self-assured and haughty mind that woos 
Your tinkling purse. You love him most who comes 
Eager and passionate from the peaks of youth, 
Demanding, where the frail ones plead ; and loves 
23 



MONNA VITA 

Though you withhold, undaunted by your scorn, 
Knowing that deathless love at last wakes love. 
And love awakened will come forth with gifts. 
For him you have no anger and no spite. 
You chide, you twinge his ear for some rash word ; 
For some too hot " I will " you give him tears, 
Crush him to raise him higher. And ever yet 
He loves, and loves more nobly. For you teach. 
As women do, your lovers how to love. 
The lust dies in their eyes, the love is bom ; 
The youth dies of youth's fever; from his dust 
Steps forth the man with chastened eyes that ask 
Beauty and wisdom, and above all, calm. 
You wake desire for music in his heart 
And answer the desire ; you teach his hands 
To play with pebbles, and to build with worlds ; 
His feet, to dance upon the dancing wave, 
Bleed on the stony highway of great deeds. 
And grow not weary of their vassalage. 
You teach his soul to yearn for journeying 
With his nocturnal beckoners, the while 
You teach his eyes to see their stately march 
Across an acorn's dome. Oh, you most wise ! 
That man shall love you with a love that fears 
24 



MONNA VITA 

No woman's fickleness; for he has lain 
Close to your heart and heard its rhythmic beat, 
And in quiescent midnights woven his dreams 
Of the spun glories of your comradeship. 

I love you thus ! Madonna, kiss me now ! 



DOORS 

Like a young child who to his mother's door 
Runs eager for the welcoming embrace, 
And finds the door shut, and with troubled face 

Calls and through sobbing calls, and o'er and o'er 

Calling, storms at the panel — so before 
A door that will not open, sick and numb, 
I listen for a word that will not come. 

And know, at last, I may not enter more. 

Silence ! And through the silence and the dark 

By that closed door, the distant sob of tears 

Beats on my spirit, as on fairy shores 

The spectral sea ; and through the sobbing, hark ! 

Down the fair-chambered corridor of years, 

The quiet shutting, one by one, of doors. 



26 



ABDIEL-THE-SYRIAN'S CHANT OF THE 
KISS 

I HAVE come home to thee 

Out of the world ! 

I know thine arms 

Once more beneath my arms, 

Thy brow against my brow, 

Thine eyes against my eyes. 

The labor of the day, 

The heat is done — 

I have come home to thee 

Out of the world ! 

Oh, my Beloved, 
All day and all the days 
I mantle thee 
With my wide love. 
I serve thee with hands, 
The light of my brain, 
The heat of my heart ; 
I serve thee with my spirit, 
That wings into far countries 
27 



CHANT OF THE KISS 

With thine; 

That rides upon the spheres, 
Following thee; 

That gathers the showering meteors 
In upturned palms, 
That we may muse 
Darkly over the shapes 
Together in the dusk, 
And ponder the eternal 
Whither and Why. 

I have come home to thee 
Out of the world ! 
After labor cometh rest, 
After heat, the dusk. 
After the world, thy face ! 
I hold thee close. 
In my two arms I hold thee, 
Thou universe, my love! 
I hold thee 

As the calyx holds the rose. 
The lamp the flame, 
As the new-moon 
The darkling segment 
28 



CHANT OF THE KISS 

That completes him ! 

I press my lips 

At last upon thy lips ! 

Thus, oh, my Beloved, 

The sunset gathers 

Into one flaming moment 

The pervasive splendors 

Of the day ; 

Thus, oh, my Beloved, 

The morning star 

Gathers into one silver cry 

The scattered glories 

Of the night. 



THE LAST FARING 

THE FATHER 

What boots the fight, what boots the triumph, my 
son? 

What boots the foeman flying ? 
In the ring of the dead on the coast so hardly won, 

Our King, our King is dying ! 

THE SON 

I saw him battle like Odin when he conquered the 
world. 
Alone, fighting and fending ! 

THE FATHER 

'Twas a fleeing knave from the hill the white 
spear hurled 
That brought a King to his ending. 

THE SON 

He speaks : " Not in the earth, not in a mound 

Like a land-king bind me ! 
At the last I would know the wash of the sea around 

And the roar of breakers behind me. 
30 



THE LAST FARING 

" On my own swift ship never whelmed of man or 
the tide 
With cups and weiipons lay me ; 
And the dead brought low at my side shall watch 
at my side 
And the sea to sleep shall sway me. 

" A storm is a-foot in the west ! I am dying — be 
swift ! 

For I would go forth to meet him; 
With the light of bales aflare at our prow as we drift 

Triumphant, triumphant, to greet him ! " 

Look, oh, my father, they bear the King to the shore. 

On his ship, by his tiller, they lay him; 
His face they set west-over-sea as of yore 

And in crown and mantle array him. 

The dead that fought and fell they lay at his feet. 
But he sits so still — doth he slumber? 

THE FATHER 

He dreams of the feasts of Walhalla, the mead and 
the meat, 
And battles without number. 
31 



THE LAST FARING 

THE SON 

My father, what makes so scarlet and golden the sail 
Like the sun on a warrior's bymie? 

THE FATHER 

At prow and midship they kindle with torches the 
bale 
That shall light a King on his journey. 

THE SON 

My father, what shapes so stately move through the 
surge 
Like youths a dead man bearing ? 

THE FATHER 

'T is the naked mariners that go forth to urge 
A King's ship on its faring. 

THE SON 

Look ! On the dune those silent shadowy forms 
A-stare through the daylight failing. 

THE FATHER 

They are his oath-friends, fighters of men and of 
storms, 
Whose hearts are too heavy for wailing. 
32 



THE LAST FARING 

THE SON 

Louder and louder the tempest comes up from the 
west. 

The bale bums higher and higher ! 
My father, who gives at last our King his rest, 

Wind or water or fire ? 

THE FATHER 

Into the storm he drives ! Full is the sail ; 
But the wind blows wilder and shriller ! 

THE SON 

'T is the ghost of a Sea-King, my father, rigid and 
pale, 
That holds so firm the tiller ! 

Wings as of luminous gulls are round the prow. 

Dipping, dipping and turning! 
My father, why is the sail not ashes ere now 

In the bale-fire's ravenous burning ? 

THE FATHER 

The lightning blinds me. My son, what now do 



you see ? 



33 



THE LAST FARING 

THE SON 

'T is a King's ship rides in splendor, 
Though the heavens sweep down with flaming 
swords to the sea, 
And the waves sweep up to end her ! 

THE FATHER 

What crashing tumult ? What thunder on thunder 
hurled 
Out of Chaos that never hath tamed him ? 

THE SON 

The bolt of Odin hath rent the walls of the world ! 
Walhalla, Walhalla hath claimed him ! 



"THE WILD ROSE" 

(for music by EDWARD MACDOWELL) 

THE SPIRIT OF THE MASTER SPEAKS IN DEEP 
WOODS: 

Come, oh, songs ! Come, oh, dreams ! 

Soft the gates of day close — 
Sleep, my birds ! sleep, streams ! 

Sleep, my wild rose ! 

Pool and bud, hill and deep, 
You who wore my robes, sleep ! 

Droop, East ! die, West ! 
Let my land rest. 

Woods ! I woke your boughs ! 

Hills ! I woke your elf-throngs ! 
Land ! all thy hopes and woes 

Rang from me in songs ! 

Come, oh, songs ! Come, oh, dreams ! 

In our house is deep rest. 
Through the pines gleams, gleams 

Bright the gold West ! 
35 



THE WILD ROSE 

There the flutes shall cry, 
There the viols weep. 

Laugh, my dreams, and sigh, 
Sing, and vigil keep. 
Call to them that sleep ! 
Call! call! 



LANEER 

The blue was gone from the lake, the blue was 

gone from the sky. 
Weak as though wounded fluttered the swallow 

that tried to fly. 
A gale was afoot on the hills. "We will wait," I 

said, "till it die." 

She laughed her wonderful laugh that stole the 

breath of fear. 
" I have sailed these waters of mine for many and 

many a year; 
I have harnessed these wayward winds. They will 

harm not me," said Laneer. 

" I am not afraid of the storm and I love the spray 
in my face. 

The wind in my hair and the throb of the wild and 
perilous pace, 

With the lee-rail under, and Death half a length be- 
hind in the race ! " 
37 



LANEER 

" You are brave, you are strong, and you swim like 

a child of the sea," said I. 
" But the white-caps rise." She laughed. " Why, 

then to-day we will fly! 
The peril is half the joy, and some day or other we 

die." 

We reefed the rebel sail, though it fought as with 

animate will. 
Then out of the cove and out from the lee of the 

sheltering hill. 
Into the reach of the storm! The storm cried, 

hungry and shrill. 

We tacked, and the fluttering sail seemed to catch 

its breath, ere the wind 
Lashed it to labor once more. Far over we heeled, 

and the grind 
Of ring and tackle and stay was clear through the 

roar behind. 

Into the crests we plunged. They swept us from top 
to toe. 

38 



LANEER 

Then crashing into the hollow ! Laneer's wet cheeks 

were aglow. 
" Give me the tiller," she cried. And she steered to 

the heart of the blow. 

Close-hauled, till the taut sheet groaned, like a gull 

that hunts as she flies, 
Beaking the silver herring with a clean, straight 

lunge from the skies, 
We drove. She laughed, Laneer, and two bright 

stars were her eyes. 

She did not speak, nor I. The wind was too loud, 

but I knew 
A flame that had never been had burst in her soul 

as we flew. 
I clutched the cleated sheet, and watched the flame 

as it grew. 

And I knew in my heart that this was the end for 

which all was made. 
That we should plunge through the storm, mad, 

eager, and unafraid, 
And see the Light and be glad and live or die as 

it bade. 

39 



LANEER 

We sailed! And the waves seemed to lift white 
fingers that flashed and were gone I 

And down to the masthead swirled the vapors, 
ragged and wan. 

We shook out a reef in despite, and into the storm 
sped on ! 

And on o'er the savage waters, the spitting crests 

and the shoals, 
We played with the gale, and we laughed that any 

comber that rolls 
Should think it could quench the Light when it 

burns in two living souls ! 

But the treacherous winds of a sudden were still ; and 

the strained, wet sail 
Hung limp. Like hawks we watched. Then down 

from the hills with a wail 
Rushed a thousand gales at once on the heels of the 

vanished gale. 

Like a frightened hound the craft shivered. A 
crashing sea 

40 



LANEER 

Broke on the plunging rudder, wrenched it and 

wrenched it free. 
Into the swirling waters thundered the boom a-lee. 

Like straws the hungry deluge swept us over the 
side. 

Fiercely up through the surge we fought. "Laneer ? " 
I cried. 

Sputtering, gasping, laughing, " Aye, aye, sir ! " La- 
neer replied. 

We clung to the knifelike keel. The waterwas biting 

cold. 
And up from the windward combers and ever new 

combers rolled. 
And pounded us, tore at us, wrenched us, fighting 

to loosen our hold. 

Laneer's flushed cheeks were pale. But she laughed 

and her eyes were light. 
" Why, this is a lark to boast of for many a day 

and night." 
I could not laugh, for her cheeks were blue that 

had just been white. 
41 



LANEER 

"We must swim," I cried. She nodded and tried 

to smile, and her hand 
Pulled at the oiler buckles and loosened the soaked 

skirt-band. 
I tore at her shoes. " Are you ready ? " It was 

hundred yards to the land. 

" I am ready," said she, and her voice was so faint 

that I scarcely heard ; 
And painfully from the keel her stiifened fingers 

stirred. 
Into the waters she glided, and sank with never a 

word. 

She sank ! I plunged and I clutched her. I clutched 

her loosened hair. 
But my fingers were stiff and lifeless, and deeper I 

plunged in despair, 
Useless forever and ever but to clutch her and die 

with her there. 



I held her, I held her at last, I dragged her up to 
the day. 

42 



LANEER 

Dear God, her face was like stone, her closed eyes 
stark and gray ! 

I struck out against the crests and choked the sud- 
den dismay. 

Shoreward, inch by inch ! And I held her close to 

my side. 
I was her strong arm at last and she my wonderful 

bride ! 
And what God with his tempest had joined, would 

God with his waters divide ? 

On, on, plodding, once more, struggling, borne 

over the crest ! 
Then suddenly dimness, the dark ! And the tearing 

ceased in my breast. 
The treacherous peace was on me, and now there 

was only rest. 



I move among men again, and scarce I know how 
or why, 

43 



LANEER 

For a thousand miles to the north placid the waters 

lie, 
But I hear ever the billows break and the shrill 

winds cry ; 

And all day long and all night waters surge over 

my head, 
And I fight crests, and my feet strain down for 

something to tread, 
And always clutched to my side, Laneer, close, close, 

and dead ! 



SONG 

There is a music in my head. 

By day and night it dins — 
A far away, sweet, silken thread 

Of ghostly violins : 

Now like a morning gush of sound 
Beneath the friendly eaves, 

Now like a hermit-thrush caged round 
By tender, laughing leaves. 

Last mom it was the sea a-surge. 
At dusk the ebb a-sighing ; 

Last night a low and piteous dirge — 
I dreamt true-love lay dying. 

And now a laugh, and now a plaint 

Of viols half in tears, 
A sea-shell echo, fair and faint. 

Of distant, humming spheres. 



45 



DISCOVERY 

Out of the Eden of my love, 

The little house so lean and spent. 

The little room where, like a dove, 

Under the rafters lives my love, 
Back to the bustling world I went. 

I wandered down the dusty street. 

Men jostled there and wept and swore, 
But in the throbbing and the beat. 
The Babel of the feverish street, 

Was something that was not before. 

Deep into each pale, passing face 

I gazed in wonder. What strange gleam 
Had in this gray and sordid place 
Clothed as with glory each pale face. 
And lit dim eyes with dream ? 

Like an explorer, midst those eyes. 

By unimagined deeps I trod ; 
And, lo ! where yesterday were lies 
And lusts in those world-hardened eyes, 

I saw the stars of God. 
46 



A CHANT ON THE TERRIBLE 
HIGHWAY 

I WALK these cold, gray streets 
All day and half the night. 
Oh, ugly shapes, 
Worn of disease and storm, 
Worn of hunger and thirst, 
Worn eternally by that hunger 
That feeds on husks, 
And wonders amazed 
Why it is never stilled ; 
Distorted shapes, 
Stript, oh, long since 
Of that lovely raiment, 
So like the lily. 
So like the rose. 
The Creator at your coming 
Laid on the shoulders of your spirits! 
It is rags in the gutter. 
Who will find the dazzle, 
The immortality, 
47 



A CHANT ON THE TERRIBLE HIGHWAY 

In that shred in the rinsings, 
In the slime ? 

Oh, debtors' prison. 

This world of barter ! 

Where men are penned 

With their beloved and best 

In noisome places, 

Away from sun and growing things. 

Away from the chaste companionship of the 

stars. 
Away from joy 
That is the bread of souls ! 
How pitifully 
They waste their loveliness, 
To breathe, to eat, 
To sleep, and soon to die ; 
Love, beauty, faith. 
Aspiring spirit, yearning heart, 
A feather in the scale 
Against the heavy reckoning 
Of Necessity, ghastly creditor. 
Christ! Art thou crucified 
Diumally 

48 



A CHANT ON THE TERRIBLE HIGHWAY 

For those immortal 
Thirty pieces of silver ? 

Racked, twisted shapes, 
Hurrj'ing like ants 
Busily to and fro 
Twixt mole-hill and mole-hill, 
How close are you my kin ! 
Half I wonder 
Am I still myself^ 
A rider in the dawn, 
Or am I you, 
Dark, \ oiceless figure. 
Scurrying from wall to wall 
Of your underground prison ? 
Kinsman, 

Who will release us ? 
You from your burning pain. 
Me from my seething pity ? 
Dreamers, and craftsmen 
Who build in lath and stucco 
What the dreamers in marble devise. 
They will minister to us 
The little while, oh, kinsman, 
49 



A CHANT ON THE TERRIBLE HIGHWAY 

That the outermost planet asks 

Wheeling once about the sun. 

But the temple of their laboring 

Shall become a house loathed, 

A court of doves and money-changers, 

A despotism to our sons. 

Kinsman, 

Our release is not yet. 

Nor shall it come amid shouts, 

The exhortations of loud tongues, 

Or the uprising of multitudes. 

Our release cometh 

When the heart of man 

Shall be as a ploughed field. 

Awaiting in the cool dawn 

The footsteps of the Sower. 

Over the vales from the hills 

Rolls the day. 

Nothing is the night ! 

In the air, fragrance ! 

In the leafage, bird-song ! 

Peace, and a waking earth, 

Ecstasy, and the footsteps of God ! 



CONVERSE OF ANGELS 

Listen, Ithuriel. Do you hear the sound of weeping ? 
It riseth from the Earth, it riseth night and day. 
The noble hands, the noble eyes have gone astray, 
The noble spirits, born to fly, in dust are creeping. 
Hark ! 'T is their hunger. Thus they cry, awake 

or sleeping. 
Desire for shells and bells hath made their souls its 

prey ; 
It bums their youth, their dreams, their loves, their 

lives away ; 
And of a burnt field, lo, no man shall make a 

reaping. 

Ithuriel, I would that one day from His throne 
The Lord would let me go down to the dusty 

plain. 
Crying : " All 's well, oh, rebel man, save you 

alone ! 
Be still, tumultuous soul ; fold those hot hands that 

strain 
Forever against God ! " Ithuriel, might their moan 
Not yield to ecstasy, and unto peace their pain ? 
51 



SONG AT ENDING DAY 

Meseems as though a ghostly light 

Had round me flung its beams to-day - 

An airy mantle, warm and white, 
To keep the cold away. 
Sad things are of a sudden gay, 

And in me wakes an old delight. 

The heaviness, the pain are fled, 
Filled as with music are the rooms 

Where yesterday a human tread 
Rang hollow as in tombs; 
And all the garden blows and blooms 

With lilies white and roses red. 

Has she returned, who went from me ? 
So near she is, so strangely near — 

It seems that I might almost see 
Her happy eyes, and hear 
Her gentle chiding for the tear 

That wakened in my ecstasy. 
52 



SONG AT ENDING DAY 

Here by the high-walled garden's gate, 
Here Is the bench she loved so well. 

Perchance she comes again, elate. 
Some mystic thing to tell ! 
My heart is as a far clear bell, 

Tolling. I close my eyes — and wait. 



SONG AFTER RAIN 

Over the stars drifts the morning, oh, loved one. 
Tree-leaf and flower-leaf speak. My heart hears 

them. 
All the green world lifts one jubilant anthem ! 
Surely, oh, loved one, you cannot be far. 



54 



THE THREE FALSE WOMEN OF 
LLANLAR 

BESS 

It 's a cold, cold wind blows in from the sea. 

MOLL 

It 's a stormy night we shall have this night. 

BESS 

I Ve a bed in my attic. Come lodge with me. 
I 'm afeard o' the wind and the wild moonlight. 

JOAN 

Afeard ! Afeard ! The dead sleep sound. 

MOLL 

Will they bury him now ? 

BESS 

Will they bury him deep ? 

JOAN 

There 's never a bed for him in the ground. 
It 's high in his rattling chains he '11 sleep ! 
55 



THE THREE FALSE WOMEN OF LLANLAR 

MOLL 

I 'm afeard, I 'm afeard ! 

JOAN 

Moll, hold thy tongue ! 

MOLL 

I 'm afeard of his eyes so straight an' still 
A-stare at his true-love till he swung, 
And she fell like dead o'er her window-sill. 

JOAN 

It 's half way back to the town we are ! 
We '11 be lodged an hour before the night. 

BESS 

Oh, her face in the window was like a star, 
As cold, as far, and as ghostly white. 

JOAN 

The Devil made ye o' craven stuff 
A-tremble for ghosts at dusk o' day ! 
At the Magistrate's ye were brave enough 
When ye went and swore his life away. 
56 



THE THREE FALSE WOMEN OF LLANLAR 

MOLL 

I was sick wi' love, and bad wi' hate. 

BESS 

And 't was thou, Joan, that made us swear ! 

JOAN 

And now it 's done, and his pretty mate 
Wears black ; and never a babe to bear ! 

MOLL 

The dark comes soon to-night. 

BESS 

The dark ! 

MOLL 

And it 's heavy my feet are ! 

JOAN 

The village is nigh. 

MOLL 

And it 's here, Joan, it 's here is the Fork 
Where ye tempted us to swear the lie ! 
57 



THE THREE FALSE WOMEN OF LLANLAR 

JOAN 



Quick, on! 

MOLL 

They clutch me ! 

BESS 

Mother o' Christ ! 

JOAN 

'T was the wind, and the fallen branch of a fir ! 

BESS 

Joan, Joan, my feet are viced 

In a cloven rock, and I cannot stir. 

JOAN 

It 's the fear has got ye, body and blood ! 

MOLL 

Joan ! 

BESS 

The fiends! 

58 



THE THREE FALSE WOMEN OF LLANLAR 

MOLL 

They choke me with hands! 



Joan! 

JOAN 

Who holds me ? Who plucked at my hood ? 

MOLL 

They burn my eyes wi' their terrible brands ! 

JOAN 

What imps possess ye ? Come swift, come swift ! 
Give me your hands ! 

MOLL 

Joan! 



Joan 



JOAN 

Who clutched me ': 

59 



THE THREE FALSE WOMEN OF LLANLAR 

MOLL 

I saw the mountains lift ! 
And on a gallows I saw a man ! 

JOAN 

Give me your hands, I '11 drag ye loose ! 

BESS 

Joan ! 

MOLL 

Joan! 

JOAN 

What weight 's on my feet ? 

BESS 

Hangman, stand back ! 

MOLL 

A noose, a noose ! 

BESS 

Stand back wi' your cap and your winding-sheet ! 
60 



THE THREE FALSE WOMEN OF LLANLAR 

JOAN 

They 've tied my body with icy bands, 
And it 's cold is my flesh and hard as bone ! 

MOLL 

Joan! 



Joan! 

JOAN 

Your hands, your hands ! 
But the three false women of Llanlar -were stone. 



REST AT NOON 

Now with a re-created mind 
Back to the world my way I find; 

Fed by the hills one little hour, 

By meadow-slope and beechen-bower, 

Cedar serene, benignant larch. 
Hoar mountains and the azure arch 

Where dazzling vapors make vast sport 
In God's profound and spacious court. 

The universe played with me. Earth 
Harped to high heaven her sweetest mirth; 

The clouds built castles for my pleasure. 
And airy legions without measure 

Flung, spindrift-wise, across the sky 
To thrill my heart once and to die. 
62 



REST AT NOON 

I have held converse with large things ; 
For cherubim with cooling wings 

Brushed me ; and gay stars, hid from view, 
Called through the arras of the blue 

And clapped their hands : " These veils uproll ! 
And see the comrades of your soul ! " 

The very flowers that ringed my bed 
Their little " God-be-with-you " said, 

And every insect, bird and bee 
Brought cool cups from eternity. 



ARAB SONG 

I CRY to thee in the day, Love me ! 

And in the night, Love me, I cry unto thee ! 

Thy love is sun and moon unto my being. 
My nourishment, my strength, my stair, my 
wings ! 

Love me, I cry to thee in the day. 

And in the night. Love me, I cry unto thee ! 

Love is a runner making clear the highway. 
' Cometh the royal chair ! Make room, make 



Love is a pilot over unknown oceans. 
The sun and stars fail, but Love keeps the 
course. 

Love me, I cry to thee in the day, 
And in the night, Love me, I cry unto thee ! 
64 



ARAB SONG 

The Sphinx is mute to solitary suppliants. 
To close-clasped hands she opes her eyes, and 
speaks. 

Love me, I cry to thee in the day, 

And in the night. Love me, I cry unto thee ! 



MUSIC AT TWILIGHT 

Twilight, and now the day 

Ends as the day began — 
Purple and gold for the heart, 

Stars for the soul of man. 

Dawn saw the toil begin, 

Dusk sees the toil fulfilled — 

Now let there be music and song 
Till the fevered blood be stilled. 

Not passionate thunders of sound, 
Nor statelier measures sage, 

But the melodies borne on the lips 
Of children from age to age. 

With the tinkle of bells in the notes. 
And dew of the fields on the words 

Immortal as dawn and dusk, 

And pure as the songs of the birds. 



66 



THE WOOL GATHERER 

Surely the watchman of my brain 

At his portal dozes, 
That I who would fain upraise my strain 

For the beauty her lifted veil discloses 

Can think of nothing but roses. 

He 's shearing ewes in Arcady 

Forgetting bolts and bars. 
Else why should it be that the words all flee, 

And I who would sing of that spirit of hers 

Can think of nothing but stars ? 



67 



THE CHASM 

There is a chasm in the world, more dark 

Than any carved of rivers and slow Time, 
A murky horror in a frosty clime, 

Where no sun peers, no pale moon's virgin arc. 

There Shame and Fear, twin wolves, forever bark, 
Huddling their stolen herd in night and grime, 
Forsaken culprits guilty of no crime. 

Gnawed, harried, crushed, heart-stricken, hopeless, 
stark. 

Forever moaning Why P forever Why f 
The lost ones err about the gloomy damps. 
Too poor, too rich, too young, too frail to 
blame. 
They live obscurely and obscurely die ; 

For these are they who have burnt out their 
lamps, 
Ere yet they knew what meant the golden 
flame. 



68 



THE COBBLER OF GLAMORGAN 

Glamorgan is in Wales, and in 

Glamorgan, free from mortal sin, 

From Devil, drink and women free, 

Bold son of Greed and Charity, 

Suckling of Wisdom, playmate of Mirth, 

Dwells Evan Bach, at peace with earth. 

A cobbler who hath cobbled long. 

Pegged each hope and stitched each wrong — 

Sorrow to gain and money to lose — 

Out of his heart and into his shoes. 

He has no wife to drive him wild, 

No wayward brother, yelping child, 

Only a house and settle warm, 

A dancing flame against the storm, 

A brain as green as April grass 

And the quickest tongue that ever was; 

And underneath his little stone house, 

Known of none save him and the bat and the 

mouse, 
A pot of gold, that moon by moon 
Grows like a patch of weeds in June. 
69 



THE COBBLER OF GLAMORGAN 

And he loves his gold as he loves his days, 

And he twinkles it in the lanthorn's rays, 

And tinkles it up and tinkles it down, 

Tosses a sovereign, bites a crown, 

Loves it and leaves it, and climbs the stair 

With a proud, but what 's-itching-my -shoulder air 

As though he half feared that the shadows might 

hold 
Reproaches for him and his black pot of gold. 

I 
Now Evan had reached full sixty years — 
His hair was white at temples and ears. 
His body was thin, but his eyes were sharp. 
And his voice was clear as a paradise harp — 
When, list, at his cottage door, the lock 
Murmured, and through the dark, a knock 
Came like a tap at the door of the mind 
(Locked and barred and hidden behind 
Rubbish and treasure, years unending) 
A knock like the scarce-heard whisper, spending 
Man's last dear gasp in a message of love — 
A knock, and a gentle, soundless shove. 
That night the creaking hinge was still. 

70 



THE COBBLER OF GLAMORGAN 

A gust through the widening crack blew chiU. 
Evan bent low o'er the half pegged shoes : 
" A gust in the neck means chilling news. 
Peg home ! Peg home ! I locked the door, 
I bolted the window, caulked the floor. 
Peg home ! Lady Ellen wants her boot. 
That gust again ! And list, the hoot 
Of the owl on the blackthorn ! Evan, peg ! 
And seven devils bewitch the leg 
That wears the foot that wears the shoe 
That Evan pegged while the weird gust blew." 
He pegged. Tap, tap ! And a third time came 
The gust as cold as the thought of shame. 
He muttered the witch-charm with never a stammer, 
He laid down the boot, he laid down the hammer. 
He coughed, he turned ; and crystal-eyed 
He stared, for the bolted door stood wide, 
And on the threshold, faint and grand, 
He saw the awful Gray Man stand. 
His flesh was a thousand snails that crept, 
But his face was calm though his pulses leapt. 
" Come in. Gray Man," quoth he, " come in, 
And close the door, for my coat is thin." 
" Naij^ Evan Bach^ I come not thither^ 
71 



THE COBBLER OF GLAMORGAN 

And ye need no coat -where we go together.'^'* 
" Cbme in, Gray Man, the fire bums high. 
The night is wet, but my settle is dry. 
I 've a jug of the kindliest rum on earth 
And a well-baked pipe hangs over the hearth. 
So enter, and sit you down with me." 
" Nay^ Evan Bach^ where your seat shall be 
All night the seven gray wives grieve,'''* 
"This chair. Gray Man. And by your leave 
We '11 let them sing to the yews and the moon. 
Think ye not yourself ye come foolishly soon ? " 
'' Evan Bach — '' "Nay, sit." '' I am Death T' 

" Even so." 
" I come — " " But the hearth hath a kindly glow." 
" Evan — " '' Here, Gray Man, your cup of rum." 
^^ Come hither — " "It warms the heart that's 

numb." 
" Death hath not time — " " What 's an hour to 

you 
With all time on your hands and nothing to do ? — 
But to knock at houses at dusk of day, 
Leave the rot, and steal the gem away. 
But I am a cobbler. I need each minute 
For the sixty precious peg-taps in it. 
72 



THE COBBLER OF GLAMORGAN 

So sit you down while I finish the boot 
For the Lady Ellen's shapely foot, 
And smoke, and drink my rum with me. 
For the rest, Gray Man, who lives will see." 
The Gray Man sat him down and drank. 
And from the room the terror shrank ; 
And Evan pegged the little shoe 
Up and over and down and through 
And stitched it in circles and stitched it plain 
And ripped it and stitched it and ripped it again ; 
And spoke at last, as calmly as though, 
He were at meat in the inn below 
Where the brook from the hill sang its elvish song 
To the tippling farmers all day long. 
He said : " Gray Man, 't is not for me 
To presume you Ve misreckoned egregiously. 
Perhaps you forgot. I 'm a bare threescore 
With a body that 's good for forty years more. 
A man should work as long as he can, 
And they need a cobbler here. Gray Man." 
And he drew a new thread from his hempen skein, 
And waxed it and wet it and waxed it again. 
The Gray Man's face had the carved stone's calm, 
But he stretched to the flame one bony palm. 
73 



THE COBBLER OF GLAMORGAN 

" Eva7i Bach^ you threescore men are proud^ 

So a threescore man to-night I voxved 

To carry home -where the seven wives weep.'''' 

" Let the seven wives go home and sleep ! 

I am young in body and heart, and I urge 

No ghostly ladies to howl my dirge." 

" Evan Bach / " — " Besides, there 's a threescore 

wretch 
Below in Porthcawl ten years a-stretch 
With pains in his legs, and quirks in his hands. 
And cramps in his belly and aches in his glands. 
Be gentle. Gray Man, and bid them cease. 
Tom Mirth is his name. May he rest in peace ! " 
And he hammered the sole like August rain 
And pegged it, unpegged it, and pegged it again. 
The Gray Man gazed in Evan's eyes 
That the hammer stopped 'twixt fall and rise. 
" / want a man of soul and shape ; 
Not a crooked -weakl'ing glad to escape. 
I zvant the neighbors to cry by your sod : 
'Behold, the visitation of God T^' 
And the Gray Man turned his stony face 
To the hearth, but Evan from his place 
On the little bare bench, with voice like a breath 

r4 



THE COBBLER OF GLAMORGAN 

Whispered low in the shadowy ears of Death : 

" I 've your man, i' faith, I Ve your man to a T! 

He 's Dewi Mawr o' Comelly. 

Out o' this door you go, as fast 

As your legs will allow, and the cobbler's- last. 

Up the hill and over the brow 

Where your seven wives are wailing now, 

Then down, and the second road, where an oak 

Stands black, takes you straight to the Cornelly 

folk. 
His house has a white-thorn. You remember ? 
You stopped for his wife there last December. 
But the rascal 's married again. For shame, 
Gray Man, it 's the highest time that ye came ! " 
" / do not -want him ! " "God in heaven. 
Who then ? Ned of Newton ? He 's seventy-seven. 
Married three times, and each wife a shrew — 
You're hard to please, or he should do." 
" Too old! " Evan lifted his hands in disgust. 
" Well, take me then, dam-me, if take me you 

must." 
And he gave the boot a last, fierce tap. 
And laid down his hammer and reached for his 

cap. 

75 



THE COBBLER OF GLAMORGAN 

But his hand in midair paused ; he stood 

All motionless, till the truant blood, 

Home bound to the heart, came back once more 

And tingled like pins at each happy pore. 

He turned not his head, but his sharp, brown eyes 

Like coast-lamps under shaggy skies 

Swung slowly round till they caught at last 

The Gray Man's eyes and held them fast. 

''''Evan Bach^ what more ? " " Tssh, close the door. 

A pot of gold 's neath my cellar floor. 

Three thousand pounds ! How much must I pay 

To live a hundred years and a day ?" 

" Evan Bach^ your gold I cannot tise.^"* 

*' 'T was honestly pegged from the county's shoes, 

And a bit of a sale of a horse or a sow 

And milk and hens and — you '11 have it now ? " 

The Gray Man turned, and like a wisp 

And a sound as soft as an infant's lisp 

He crossed the room. *'*' If I let you live, 

As you learned to take^ will you learn to give P 

You shall have your hundred years and a day^ 
But as Death is a just man^ you shall pay I 
Not me ! I spurn the rubbish ! Spend 

Your gold tofeed^ your gold to mend^ 
76 



THE COBBLER OF GLAMORGAN 

Till everif hovel and cot and hall 
In Glamorgan^ hut most in your own Porthcawl^ 
Shall know you^ Evan Bach^ and say^ 
* We need you a hundred years and a day? '' 
" Indeed, Gray Man, indeed, they shall ! " 
" The Devil was good when he was small. 
But Time is a torrent wrenching down 
The mightiest dike and the lordliest town. 
It breaks the weak and it twists the strongy 
And man it bears like foam along 
Under the cliff and over the crag — 
A tear., a bubble., a splinter., a rag. 
And age on age^ the stern pines -watch 
The noisy., grim., uneven match 
And wonder when the man will come 
Who is more on its surface than bubble or scum.'*'' 
He ceased ; but Evan's heart was light 
For the forty years he had won that night — 
But the Gray Man had vanished quite. 



II 
The years have passed as all years will, 
Be they swift with joy or laggard with ill — 
One long deep swell on a sandy shore — 

77 



THE COBBLER OF GLAMORGAN 

And Evan Bach is aged fourscore. 

His hair and beard are new-fallen snow, 

His eyes like stars in winter glow, 

But Glamorgan's shoes by night and by day 

He pegs, save at dusk when he goes to pay. 

He goes with his basket, he goes with his purse. 

Buys quilt for the cradle and pall for the hearse. 

Pays the priest for the living, the dying, the dead. 

The too young to be wise and too poor to be wed, 

A bed in the churchyard, a hut in the heather, 

A roof for two fools to grow v/ise together. 

He gives, though the coat on his back is shoddy. 

He gives, though it wrenches the soul from his 

body ; 
And a mournful man of sighs untold 
Is Evan at night by his pot of gold. 
But in all Glamorgan the good folk say : 
" May he live a hundred years and a day ! " 

III 
The years spin on as spin they must — 
Rosebud to rose, and rose to dust — 
And Evan, trembling at neck and at knee, 
Is ninety-one, ninety-two, rantty -three, 

78 



THE COBBLER OF GLAMORGAN 

But he pegs by night and he pegs by day 
Save an hour, at whiles, when he goes to pay. 
He goes with his basket, he goes with his purse, 
But he pays with a phrase, he pays with a verse, 
A '' God be wi' you," a "Christ bless all," 
When he stumps through the streets of his own 

Porthcawl. 
And underneath his little stone house 
He holds each eve a lone carouse. 
For the gold in the black pot, moon by moon, 
Grows till I fear 't will crack it soon. 
And he tinkles it up and tinkles it down, 
Tosses a sovereign, bites a crown; 
"For gold is heavy to carry, and thieves 
Are thick in Glamorgan as beechen leaves, 
And men are not now what once they were. 
And the sticks a man gathers a man should bear — 
Their load of pain, the shiftless-souled ; 
And I my pot of clinking gold." 
And down the road a little mile 
Goes Evan his debt to pay — with a smile. 

Dusk ! And over the purple heather 
Meet Day and Night and speak together. 
79 



THE COBBLER OF GLAMORGAN 

Sleepy bird and sleepy bough — 
Where is noon's light rapture now ? 
Purple shadows, monstrous forms, 
Earth for thieves and sky for storms; 
Music dumb and color dying; 
Tree-toad ; and tree-toad replying. 
Croaks the frog from dismal swamp. 
Blinks the marsh-fay's treacherous lamp. 
Now the wind; and like a fog 
Rolls the night o'er wood and bog. 

Evan comes not to Porthcawl ; 
For the mist is over highway and all. 
And the dark is thick ; he stops, he turns, 
His soul is chill, but his body bums. 
Quoth he, "I should have brought my gold. 
Mayhap I had not felt so cold." 
He climbs to his house ; but, lo, at the gate 
He starts, for a score of black forms wait 
On his garden-path, and he tries to speak. 
But his tongue is lamed, his breath is weak. 
His house-door opens, a windy torch 
Lights up the faces a-crowd at the porch. 
There 's Dewi Mawr and Dewi's son, 
80 



THE COBBLER OF GLAMORGAN 

And the Comelly neighbors, every one. 
And the priest, in the torch's flicker now, 
On his lips the Latin, the scowl on his brow 
He keeps for the times when he buries the dead 
Or weds the fools who forgot to be wed. 
And Evan Bach gazed still ; nor spoke. 
For out of his door the Porthcawl folk 
Were bearing a body, slim and black. 
The heavy door swung shut at their back. 
Cried Evan aloud — but his heart was a-cower — 
" Whom bury ye here from my house this hour ? " 
Vanished ! Vanished — corpse, neighbors, and all ! 
But one cried: "'Ti^ the miser Bach of Porth- 
cawl ^ 

Evan entered his house, he sank on his bench — 

The air was thick with a torch's stench. 

He reached out his hands to the hearth's faint spark. 

His hands met hands in the shivering dark. 

He shrieked, and through infinite spaces heard 

The voice : " Evan Bach^ you have broken your 

word!'' 
And the stars that blink through casements, sighed. 
That night Evan Bach the cobbler died. 



HOLIDAY 

Beneath the beeches shade I read 
My song of passion and of dread : 
" / lih the wild tale toell^'' you said. 

" And yet I ivould that you would write 
A something else for my delight — 
A dancing thing in gold and white.'''' 

And so., beneath the beecli's shade.. 
While round me ant and zephyr played., 
I sat and this light song I made. 

Over us the sky, under us the green ; 
Earth is serene and merry am I ! 

All that can smart hath taken wing — 
What shall I sing to touch your heart ? 

Portentous songs of steam and steel ? 
Peoples' weal, peoples' wrongs ? 

A world with gold o'erspilled, o'erflushed, 
Armies crushed, nations sold ? 
82 



HOLIDAY 

Things of a day to come and go ! 
Too fleeting, low, for lover's lay. 

Sweet, I will lift a lordlier stave 
Of deep and grave, eternal drift. 

Of how your eyes are blue as the heaven 
That 's bluest of seven in Paradise. 

Of how your laugh is clear as the stream 
That Saints a-gleam in Eden quaff. 

Of how your hands are soft and kind 
As the twilight wind in spirit-lands. 

And ages on when from the deep 
Of dust and sleep unto the sun 

Some delving finger brings this lay. 
And whiles away an hour to linger 

In long-dead times, and faintly wonder 
What tale lay under these light rhymes, 

Perchance he '11 muse : " When that boy sang, 
Daily earth rang with titan news. 
83 



HOLIDAY 

" And men strove then as none had striven, 
And Space was given as toy to men. 

" And there were heroes in those ages, 
Knaves and sages, Darwins, Neros. 

" And yet the thunder of those great seons — 
Dead crusts mid paeans bursting asunder, 

" Triumphs that long shook sphere and sphere. 
Are not so clear as this boy's song, 

" This tinkling lute that echoes on 
Though clarion and king are mute. 

"For nothing we dare to count as proved — 
Save that he loved and she was fair." 



FIFTEEN 

(To A Face on Fifth Avenue) 

How close must be the city air 

To make your young head droop so soon, 
Ere ever May's wild-flying hair 

Yield to the silken bonds of June ! 

Faded ! Before the bloom, the blight ! 

Unshamed, but faded ! Where are now 
Those tremulous glories that made bright 

That powdered cheek and brow ? 

Oh, cheek that flamed, oh, sparkling eyes ! 

Was it for this, that perfect mirth ? 
For this the love, the sacrifice. 

The patience, and the pangs of birth ? 

Faded ! And now the long decay ; 

Years, and the hungering look behind. 
November on the heels of May ! 

A crumpled leaf, the whirling wind ! 

85 



THE RHAPSODY OF ABDIEL-THE- 
SYRIAN FOR HIS BELOVED 

I WHISPER it to the sea! 

Oh, hear it, combers from afar! 

Hear it, oh, placid spirit, 

Sleeping and breathing 

All the long night 

In thy shimmering silks; 

Hear it, brother of man ! 

In thy storm, in thy calm, 

In thy eternal ebb and flow 

Of waters, knowing not rest. 

So like thy kin. 

The tillers of unprofitable soil ! 

I cry it to the winds ! 
Oh, hear it, swift-spurring riders, 
Who seek out with your spears 
The decaying trees; 
As Justice, knight-errant in armor, 
Seeks out the decaying souls ! 
86 



THE RHAPSODY OF ABDIEL-THE-SYRIAN 

Hear it, ye clouds ! 

Marvellous in your manifold 

And ever-new beauties 

As the heart of my Beloved ! 

Ye, whom I mark 

Bom like a goddess from azure, 

Growing till ye possess the sky 

And our up-jutting summits 

In inconceivable kingliness; 

Fading, dissolving 

In gold and iridescence, 

Leaving the sky as before. 

Indestructible azure ! 

Hear it, ye who speed 

Loftily above the first star 

That weds the Day to the Night; 

And thou, who liest, 

Purple and huge, 

Awaiting thy pilot 

At the harbor-mouth of the sunset — 

Hear it ! 

I cry it to the stars ! 
That speak in the utter silence 
87 



THE RHAPSODY OF ABDIEL-THE-SYRIAN 

When the winds slumber and the sun, 
And the hurrying thoughts of men 
Crackle no more, noisily. 
Through the intervening void. 
I cry it to ye. 
Companionable stars. 
Hear it! 

Oh, living spirits, sea and wind ! 
Loftily errant kinsmen, cloud and star! 
My Beloved hath spoken to me 
In the dusk. 

In the hour of the large, first star. 
Hath she spoken with me. 
From between her white breasts 
She hath taken a key; 
With her hands she hath unlocked, 
With her fingers, more soft 
Than the apple-blossom 
When it falls 
In windless noon. 
She hath unlocked, 
One after one. 
The doors of this, my spirit, 
88 



THE RHAPSODY OF ABDIEL-THE-SYRIAN 

That reaches up to )'e, ultimate stars, 

Eternally aspiring 

From this lonely star, the world ! 

Into each room she hath come. 

Darkness fled before her ! 

Dusty, forgotten lamps 

Broke like a red moon 

Through vapors ! 

Walls were not ! 

Light was and walls could be not ! 

My Beloved hath brought the Day ! 

I was blind and I see, 

I was a wanderer, 

I was a homeless man — 

My Beloved hath led me home ! 

Hear it ! Oh, windy reapers ! 

Imperious brothers ! 

My Beloved hath told me my lineage ! 

All that lives is my kin. 

All that grows 

Yearningly sunward ! 

You are my brothers, 

The clouds are my exquisite, 

Beloved sisters. 

89 



THE RHAPSODY OF ABDIEL-THE-SYRIAN 

Our Father 

Is too wonderful to name. 

Oh, sea, oh, populous air ! 

I and my Beloved, 

We are building us a house ! 

All crj^stal it shall be 

The pinnacled home 

Wherein I and my Beloved 

Shall dwell together ! 

(The airy builders 

Have begun their work — 

I hear the sound 

Of laughter and crystal spades, 

Of singing and crystal hammers !) 

All crystal it shall be ! 

And through the crystal 

Eternally shall fall 

The splendor of the White Flame 

That kindles the sun. 

Glorious shall be the company 
That communes with us 
From day rise to dayfall. 
90 



THE RHAPSODY OF ABDIEL-THE-SYRIAN 

Our house shall be a music 

Of many notes 

But one harmony. 

Far shall our guests come 

To bide with us in peace, 

Oh, my Beloved ! 

Winds, ye cannot escape us ! 

Stars, ye cannot dwell so high 

That we shall not reach you ! 

I have heard my Beloved 

Call to you at dusk. 

Like a sister 

She hath called unto you — 

And ye have not been mute. 



THE MARKETPLACE IN PIEVENICK 

At Pievenick in the marketplace 
The sun shone down with waning glow, 
Where two cab-horses, face to face, 
Discussed with ponderous nods and slow 
In melancholy ruminations 
Time's ravages and shortened rations. 
Deserted were the streets ; no sound 
Broke on the heavy silence round 
Save the faint plash of waters cool 
From brazen goose-bills, gaping wide; 
And tongues of drowsy boys, beside 
The wet curb of the shady pool. 
Over the square a lone dog crept, 
Stretched in the fountain's shade, and slept ; 
And by the sombre Rathaus wall 
An old fruit- vendor drowsed and drowsed, 
While bees hummed idly in the stall 
And roundabout the green flies browsed. 
The Clock on the Rathaus pealed the hour. 
And a gargoyle droned from the minster-tower: 
"We do not heed your foolish tick 
In the marketplace in Pievenick." 
92 



THE DUKE'S LADlTE 

Petei- of Mayence sings it to his Bishop : 

I HEARD of a Duke in Rimini 

(He is dead, my lord) ; 
A base and a violent man was he 

With poison-cup and sword, 
But he loved well his ladye. 

He had a wife, oh, wonder-eyed, 

(She is dead, ah me !) 
She was young, and once (only once) she cried 

Against the Duke's ladye. 
But he gave her to drink, and she died. 

The Duke he wedded a kingdom's heir, 

(Oh, fair was she I) 
She choked her breath with her golden hair 

Because of the Duke's ladye 
Who was so noble and fair. 

The Duke was cruel, the Duke was wild. 
(He ruled a wild countree.) 
93 



THE DUKE S LADYE 

Many the sweet maid he beguiled. 

But ever to his ladye 
He turned home like a child. 

He builded her sonnets and lover's lays 

(Like a boy sang he)j 
And a moon's-span oft of stainless days, 

Of his marvellous ladye 
He sang the golden praise. 

And he builded a church in Rimini-town. 

(Oh, fair it is to see !) 
Spirits and hands of high renown 

Devised it for his ladye 
The fairest, stateliest crown. 

Nymphs and Pan and the gods of old, 

(Not Christ, ah me !) 
In line and legend featly scrolled 

Tell of his high lad]^e 
In purple and scarlet and gold. 

Capital, balustrade, cornice, and wall, 
(That this should be !) 
94 



THE DUKE S LADYE 

His name bear, linked high over all, 

With the name of his fair lad^e 
In a deathless coronal. 

In Michael's chapel tombed she sleeps, 

(Oh, royally!) 
house Divse " / Still he keeps 
The soul of his dear ladye 
Like a pure star over the deeps ! 

And still, the prayerful bow the knee 
To a statue of wondrous grace. 

They call him Michael, but, ah me ! 
The guardian angel's holy face 

Is the face of the Duke's lad;f^e. 



THE FIGHTING SCRIBE OF lONA 

So, are you come again 

Out of your cave in Hell, 

Monster of vapor and hands ? 

Over the strait in Mull 

I heard you howl, and I heard you 

Wild on the waters that crowd 

Past us up from the sea, 

Past us to Staflfa to-night. 

I heard you, fiend, in my soul ! 

I knew to-night you would come. 

What is your will of me ? Speak ! 
Monster a-crouch by my lattice ! 
What is your will ? My book ? 
Once more my book ? Once more 
My Patriarchs, scarlet and azure. 
My thickets, my wonderful angels ? 
No ! Not my book ! Not this ! 
Back to your lattice, back. 
Palpitant bag of vapors ; 
Fume of the marsh, with hands ! 
96 



THE FIGHTING SCRIBE OF lONA 

Jehov^ah, sitting on clouds 
In sapphire of heaven and ocean, 
Jehovah shall leap from the parchment 
And smite you ! Soul of the Snake, 
Lilith, mother of Cain ! 

Back ! You shall break me no more 
My quills ; or muddy my paints. 
Or with your vapors make odious 
My shining leaves ! They shall cry 
Glory to God in lona 
Though nightly Gehenna and Ireland 
Loose all their devils against me. 
This is God's work I do ! 
Satyr, in regions afar, 
Where Mahound in unlighted places 
Stalks, bringing not day. 
My Genesis shall carry the dawn ! 
Silence that laughter ! What .' 
Will you grapple ? Then come ! Those hands ! 
I fear them not .' I tell you 
I fear those hands no more ! 
What now ? Do you flee ? So soon ? 
Coward, are you shaken at last ? 
97 



THE FIGHTING SCRIBE OF lONA 

Stay, fiend ! I clutch you now ! 
Yes, writhe ! Spew round, 
Spew your tenebrious vapors ! 
I let not go my hold 
Till I have torn from your breast 
Your heart to make it my ink-pot. 

One wrench ! Writhe, for I have it ! 

I go again to my book. 

My Genesis^ to my Patriarchs. 

Visitant, the blood from your heart 

Shall make more glorious the firmament 

Where Jehovah rests amid angels ; 

More dazzling the wonderful garment 

Of Jacob wringing at Peniel 

A blessing from God in the night. 



"OUl^ OF THIS CAGE MY BODY" 

Out of this cage my body, out of me like a bird, 

Freed by the touch of your fingers, lured by the 
song of your word. 

Laughter like sun on its pinions, tears like the mir- 
roring dew. 

Out of me, out of me, wings my soul unto the soul 
of you ! 

It lies in your hand and it quivers, it quivers in 

joy, not in fear; 
It feels the warmth of your fingers, and hears the 

heart beating near. 
It feeds on the bread of your silence, and buoyant 

and strong grow its wings. 
And day and night in the light of your love it sings 

and it sings and it sings ! 



99 



MEMORY 

Moodily down the street men call The Years 
I wandered visiting old friends and foes, 
Dear days, that laughed and played with me, and 
those 

Scarcely less dear that shared unstained tears. 

And other days that greeted me with jeers 
I visited, sick days without repose. 
That decked their scars in bright, deceptive 
shows. 

And spoke of debts and payments in arrears ; 

Usurious days that muttered from the dark, 
Pillowed on rags, unhappy, broken, old : 
Pay, pay, thou wooer of the far Sublime ! 
I cried : Have I not paid to the last mark. 
Have I not paid you back a hundredfold ? 
Oh miserly, inhuman sons of Time ! 



100 



THE SICKBED 

Dear heart, when thus I stroke your aching head 

I do believe the pain at last must go. 

For so much love is in these hands, I know 
There must be healing ; for hath One not said 
That love shall comfort the uncomforted. 

Heal man's diseases as it heals his woe ? 

Shall I then doubt that I who love you so 
Can tame the rebel shades that haunt thy bed ? 

Sleep, my beloved. Vaster love than mine 

Grants these poor fingers power to lull the ache. 
Through love am I become God's instrument : 
A harp whereon he breathes his high intent ; 
A hollow reed, made for love's holy sake 
A carrier of harmonies divine. 



101 



ANNIVERSARY 

I WONDER had you wept or had you smiled, 
Could you have read the book of things to be 
That summer dusk we sat beside the sea, 

And, like the children that we were, beguiled 

Our wiser sense to think that we but whiled 
An hour away in casual company? 
Could you have known what now is memory 

I wonder had you wept or had you smiled ? 

Men call you happy. Boldly I believe 

That year by year I see the gladness grow ; 
Yet care and pain and vigils bravely kept 
Gauntly confront the joys. That August eve 
Could you have dreamed the pain the happiest 
know 
I wonder had you smiled or had you wept ? 



102 



THE PEDDLER 

I PEDDLES pencils on Broadway. 

I know it ain't a great career. 
It 's dull an' footless — so folks say — 

And yet I 've done it twenty year, 
Held down my same old corner here 

An' never missed a day. 

I peddles, an' I watch the crowd. 

I knows 'em — all they say an' do — 
As if they shouted it out loud. 

I look 'em through an' through an' through ! 
By crabs ! they 'd kill me if they knew — 

They are so fine an' proud. 

I knows 'em ! Oh, it 's in their eyes, 
It 's in their walk, it 's in their lips ! 

They tries to bluff it — but I 'm wise ! 
An' they 're just children when you strips 

The smirk off; an' the clerks, the chips. 
Stands clean of all the lies. 
103 



THE PEDDLER 

I 've watched so long, I scarcely see 
The clo'es — it 's just the faces now. 

Somehow I knows their misery, 

An' wonders — when ? An' where ? An' how ? 

Elbow an' shoulder — on they plough — 
An' yet somehow they speaks to me. 

I 'm like the priest — an' all day long 

They tells me what they 've thought an' done. 

An' some is flabby, some is strong. 
An' some of 'em was dead an' gone 

Before they ever saw the sun. . . . 
I knows where some of 'em belong. 

I peddles pencils. Christ ! An' they ? 

They does the things that seems worth while. 
I watch 'em grow in' old an' gray. 

An' queer about the eyes, an' smile 
To see 'em when they 've made their pile, 

A-totterin' up Broadway. 



THE DEVIL AND ST. DONAT 

The Devil hath made him a ship 

To bear the sinful souls ; 
He hath made it well of roots from Hell, 

And sulphur and brimstone and coals. 

He cruises from midnight till dawn 

'Twixt Severn-mouth and Dee : 
At one by Harlech, at two by Llanbadrig, 

By wild Worm's Head at three ; 

From Severn-mouth to Dee, 

Dee to Severn again, 
Till he picks up the oar-boat come from shore 

With its catch of damned men. 

Then all night long the good folk 

That on the seacoasts be, 
Will hear the Devil holding his revel 

On his mad ship out at sea. 

St. Donat lived in Pembroke 
And miracles many he wrought; 

And the Devil and all that come at his call 
By day and night he fought. 
105 



THE DEVIL AND ST. DONAT 

Cried he, " A shame I deem it 

That we should weakly stand, 
And let a knave live at peace on the wave 

Whom we harry for aye on the land." 

He made him a spear of an ash-wood tree, 

Of iron he made him a head ; 
And set it in shrine for midnights nine 

And holy prayers he said. 

Then out from Llanfihangel 

He stole 'twixt the night and the day, 
Till the Devil's bark like a coal in the dark 

He spied in Gwbert Bay. 

On Csemmas Head, St. Donat 

Crouched o'er the harbor-bar. 
No stars did hover the black ship over, 

And the moon was fled afar. 

The Devil he saw at the hatchway 
As the reeking hold he crammed. 
" I will wait till he go," quoth he, " below, 
To count the newly damned. 
106 



THE DEVIL AND ST. DONAT 

But when the Devil hath gone below 

I will lift my bright spear-head, 
And save the sin-weary for the Virgin Mary 

And kill the Devil dead." 

And lo, the ship turned slowly 

Forth from Gwbert Bay ; 
And St. Donat heard the music weird 

Of the Devil's triumph- lay. 

It slew the bird as he fled, 

It withered the leaf on the tree. 
It clave the rock, and block on block 

Flung thundering into the sea. 

But on Csemmas Head, St. Donat 

Stood up with never a fear. 
Though bats of the air whirred through his hair 

And the winds clutched at his spear. 

And he flung the weapon straight 

As the moon flings her shaft o'er the wave ; 
'T was a mile, I wot, that the good spear shot 

Ere into the hull it drave. 
107 



THE DEVIL AND ST. DONAT 

A mile, and maybe twain, 

It sped with a sound like thunder. 

And when at last it struck, it brast 
The hellish keel asunder. 

The Devil was gone below 

Branding the souls with his finger ; 

But when he was ware of the danger there, 
Pardee, not long did he linger ! 

For the waters (that are of God) 

Leapt over the sinking rail ; 
The stays they wrenched and the Devil they 
drenched. 

They tore the black mainsail. 

The sinning souls outstrewn 

On the waves of Gwbert Bay, 
Like one they fled to Csemmas Head — 

But the Devil he swam away. 

St. Donat hath gone to glory 

And sits at Mary's knee ; 
And never the Devil holds his revel 

'Twixt Severn more and Dee. 
108 



THE DEVIL AND ST. DONAT 

But a giant grins on Worm's Head 

Serenely year on year, 
As he wipes his mouth with the black sail-cloth 

And picks his teeth with the spear. 



THE HUMMINGBIRD 

Through tree-top and clover a-whirr and away ! 
Hi ! little rover, stop and stay. 

Merry, absurd, excited wag — 
Lilliput-bird in Brobdingnag ! 

Wild and free as the wild thrush, and warier — 
Was ever a bee merrier, airier ? 

Wings folded so, a second or two — 
Was ever a crow more solemn than you ? 

A-whirr again over the garden, away ! 
Who calls, little rover ? Bird or fay ? 

Agleam and aglow, incarnate bliss ! 
What do you know that we humans miss ? 

In the lily's chalice, what rune, what spell, 
In the rose's palace, what do they tell 

(When the door you bob in, airily) 
That they hush from the robin, hide from the bee ? — 
110 



THE HUMMINGBIRD 

Fearing the crew of chatter and song, 
And tell to you of the chantless tongue ? 

Chantless ! Ah, yes. Is that the sting 
Masked in gay dress and whirring wing ? 

Faith ! But a wing of such airy stuff! 
What need to sing ? Here 's music enough. 

A- whirr, and over tree-top, and through ! 
Hi ! little rover, fair travel to you. 

Sweet, absurd, excited wag — 
Lilliput-bird in Brobdingnag ! 



THE LAST WABANAKI 

Lappilatwan^ 
Lappilatrwan^ 
Gray singer of the dusk, 
High in the birch-tree, 
High, where the squirrels 
Cannot come. 
Not the flying squirrels — 
Lappilatwariy 
I hear you : 
" It is twilight. 
Go to sleep, 
Birds and insects, 
Go to sleep. 
Bear and moose. 
Go to sleep. 

Chiefs of the Wabanakis. 
Braves, leave your hunting. 
Squaws and maidens, 
Lay j^our weaving 
In the baskets. 
Tend the fire 
In the wigwam. 
112 



THE LAST WABANAKI 

Young papooses, 
Let the little river 
Flow by unhindered. 
Go to sleep, 
I, Lappilatwan^ 
Singer in the dusk, 
Say it." 

Lappilatruan^ 
Lappilatwan^ 
Why do you sing ? 
The birds have all 
Gone to sleep. 
The little birds 
That sang to the elves 
In the deep forest 
All day long, 
To the little elves 
That slid down the sunbeams 
And ran races 
Over the shining hill 
Of the rainbow. 
The birds have all 
Gone to sleep 
113 



THE LAST WABANAKI 

With the elves 

That laughed in the forest. 

There is no more forest. 

Lappilatwan^ 

Lappilat-wan^ 

Why do you sing ? 

The Big Moose 

Whom Kuloskap the Master 

Called Kchi Mus 

He is gone to sleep. 

Muuin the Bear 

And Malsumsis, the little wolf — 

Hark, Lappilatwan^ 

They do not shout 

Through the forest. 

They have all 

Gone to sleep. 

Only Sexkatu 

The flying squirrel, 

The chipmunk and the woodchuck, 

Only your foes, 

Lappilat-wan^ 

Still wake. 

114 



THE LAST WABANAKI 

Lappilatwan^ 

Lappilatwan^ 

Why do you sing ? 

The crafty chiefs 

Of the Wabanakis 

They have all 

Gone to sleep. 

The medicine man, 

The wizard, 

The strong man with the bow — 

They, too, have all 

Gone to sleep. 

The squaws are silent. 

They have laid aside 

The bright blankets 

And the weaving of baskets, 

They have gone into the wigwam. 

But there is no smoke 

Rising through the trees 

Of the forest. 

The fires in the wigwams — 

The squaws have forgotten them. 

They have all 

Gone to sleep. 

115 



THE LAST WABANAKI 

Lappilatwan^ 

Lappilatwan^ 

Why do you sing ? 

The braves and the maidens 

They have looked 

At each other, 

Sadly, without smiling — 

They have gone into their wigwams? 

They have all 

Gone to sleep. 

The papooses 

Cried from the wigwams. 

They cried, 

But now they are still. 

Hark, Lappilatwan! 

Not one 

Whispers to the elves 

That slide down the beam 

Of the first star. 

They have all 

Gone to sleep. 



THE BOY AND THE MOTHER 

THE BOY IN THE CITY 

All day long, all day long 

Up and down the streets I go — 

Not a face in all the throng 
That I know ! 

Aching eyes and heavy feet, 

All day long and days and days ! 

Oh, for something good to eat, 
And a warm wood blaze ! 

Fields are gray and frosty now. 
Trees are stripped, except maybe 

For an apple on the bough 
All forgot — like me. 

In the house there 's smell o' pine, 
Where the fire cracks and roars, 

And the sound of winds that whine 
Under floors and doors ! 
117 



THE BOY AND THE MOTHER 

And the kettle puffing hot 

And her voice — " Some kindlin's, Jack ! " 
And — she '11 cry : " Oh ! I forgot ! " 

But I won't go back ! 

THE MOTHER IN THE VILLAGE 

I sit all day an' think an' think, 

My hands they scarce can sew, 
They lie here in my lap like stones — 

Why did I let him go ? 

He might ha' worked here in the store 
An' earned enough for him an' me. 

I told him, told him, till he cried. 
Somehow, he could n't see. 

Perhaps, we country folks is queer. 

An' old an' sot an' dull ; 
But townsfolk, they 're so rich an' bad — 

An' he 's so beautiful ! 

They '11 ask him to their parties, him 

That was so dear an' true, 
An' make him drink an' smoke, an' do 

The things that bad men do. 
118 



THE BOY AND THE MOTHER 

The girls '11 prink to catch his eye, 
With hair all frizzed an' curled. 

An' mothers '11 set traps for him, 
Who does n't know the world ! 

An' then some fluffy, city girl, 
With just clothes in her head. 

Will snap him up away from me 
To love her folks instead. 

I sit all day an' think an' think — 
My hands they scarce can sew. 

They 're achin' just to touch his cheeks. 
Why did I let him go ? 

THE BOY 

Up and down the crowded street, 
All day long and days and days — 

Oh, for something good to eat 
And a warm wood blaze ! 



THE CRIER IN THE NIGHT 

I CRY to you through the night, towers ! 

I cry to you through the night, machines ! 

I cry to you through the night, oh, city of smoke 

and roaring ! — 
Where my Beloved dwells 
And laboi*s and grows wan. 
Day by day in her wonderful eyes 
The lamp bums dimmer; 
Day by day, her dancing fingers 
Grow heavier, and her dancing feet. 
I cry to you through the night, ye inexorable ! 
Must it be 

That she too shall grow listless, 
Those eyes dull, those lips dumb ? — 
That spirit, eager as the bird. 
Swift as the steed, sniffing the sea. 
Beautiful as the sea awaiting the night — 
Oh, terrible watchmen at the gate. 
Must that gold mote be quenched -^ 

What do you answer, towers ? 
What do you answer, machines ? 
120 



THE CRIER IN THE NIGHT 

What do you answer, oh, city of toil and weep- 
ing ? 
You who chant by day 
The pitiless power of man. 
By night, his awful grandeur! 
Relentless Caesars! 

The multitudes cry and clap their hands, 
They crowd about your chariot. 
They fling you roses, 
They wind you wreaths — 
But, oh, what of my Beloved, 
A captive at your wheel ? 



Oh, potent, terrible spirits ! 
I flee from you, I flee to the hills. 
To the wilderness canopied of heaven. 
To the sunny vale, the peaceful village. 
The shepherd with his shorn, his bleating flock. 
On quiet slopes 
Companions me,* 

Sown fields that quiver into green 
Lie at my feet, the clear church bell 
Breaks like a star the silent air of dusk. 
Dark, Hesperidean orchards 
121 



THE CRIER IN THE NIGHT 

Solace my eyes, my ears 

Ten thousand doves cooing in the warm noon. — 

I flee! 

Is it the voice of my Beloved ? 

I flee to the white peaks ; 

Vapor and gold is their crown. 

Wonderful heights, 

Brooding over the far still lake 

As Jehovah over the face of the deep ! 

I flee, daemons of torment ! 

I flee! 

But your runners are upon my trail ! 

Your tongues are as the tongue of the sea. 

Ever you call me, though I flee from you, 

Ever you call me, and I return ! 

I cannot escape you ! 

Your clutches are terribly upon me ! 

You are my masters. 

But you shall answer, oh, towers ! 
You shall answer, machines ! 
You shall answer, city of stripes and millstones ! 
There will come a day 

When my Beloved will take my hand at last. 
122 



THE CRIER IN THE NIGHT 

Out of the ashes of our woe 

We shall rise up before you ; 

Without humility, without fear, 

We shall look into your eyes. 

And we shall cry : 

Lay bare, lay bare your hearts I 

What is true in you. 

What is noble in you, 

What is enduring in you ? 

Lay bare, lay bare ! 

For what is otherwise 

The God-in-us has risen to destroy ! 



THE KEEPERS OF THE NATION 

(1912) 

Clear o'er the turbulence that night and day 
From dark vales rises where men war and weep ; 
Clear o'er the noisy toil of them that reap 

Unholy harvests, and the noisy play 

Of idle souls that fling their years away, 
They heard a voice that echoed up the deep 
Ravines of time and would not let them sleep. 

And they arose, daring no more delay — 

" Where is thy brother ? " In the streets were tongues 

Reiterating Cain's accursed reply. 
But they walked boldly, heeding not the throngs ; 

And like a trumpet shivering the sky 
Cried as one voice : " My brother droops in thongs ! 

Guide me. Lord God! My brother's keeper 
ami!" 



124 



ON THE SENATE'S REPUDIATION OF 
AN HONORABLE COMPACT 

Blind guardians of the glory of our land, 

Defenders of our fame, what have you done ? — 
Crying: Our holiest pledges every one 

Are idle words writ on the windy sand ! 

How shameless at the judgment do we stand! 
Through cynic Europe hear the laughter run; 
Shrewd Machiavellis mocking as they shun 

The great republic of the faithless hand ! 

Yea, we are great, but not by juggled phrases! 
Yea, we are strong, but not by troth denied ! 
The age is full of change and insecure ; 
Hot in the fevered blood of nations blazes 
The strife of souls. Only by clear-descried, 
Intrepid equity can we endure. 



125 



EPITAPH 

Humanity and Valor, Wisdom, Faith, 

Keep watch beside him. Truth makes smooth his 

brow. 
His days, his deeds stand shining round him now. 
Against such guards what power hast thou, O 

Death ? 



126 



THE VIGIL OF PADRE JUNIPERO 

(San Diego, March, 1770) 

Dawn ! And over the peaks, over the serried wall, 

Day, the silver, the flame-born, spreads out her 
wings through the blue ! 

What folk is astir so early, what hammers impa- 
tiently fall, 

Waking the bird from his slumber, heavy with 
poppy and dew ? 

What mariners row what burdens to their ship ere 
break of day ? 

What cowled one kneels so early on the hill-top 
over the Bay ? 

Heroes have come from the south, heroes have 

striven and failed. 
The Cross of God on high they have raised, but 

raised it in vain. 
Hunger and thirst are potent, though the breast be 

stoutly mailed. 
" We will turn," quoth grave Portola, " at dawn 

home to New Spain. 
127 



THE VIGIL OF PADRE JUNIPERO 

We have dreamed a noble dream, but the dream 

was not to be ; 
And I must save the Spanish-men that trust their 

weal to me." 

Calm is the voice of the Padre : " We are God's 
men. Shall we fear ? 

I follow God's dream, not mine, and God knows 
no rebuff. 

God who loves His wilds, will feed His pioneer. 

God rules. Relief will come. God rules. It is 
enough." 

" Relief! " Portola cried. "The relief-ship is lost, 
I say!" 

Cried the Padre : " One day more ! " Quoth Por- 
tola : " So be it, one day ! '* 

Day ! And who kneels so mute on the hill-top over 

the Bay ? 
The mariners load their bark, the stores lie heaped 

on the strand. 
Blue and unclouded bends over the world the day. 
Waking each canyon to life in the beautiful, terrible 

land. 

128 



THE VIGIL OF PADRE JUNIPERO 

Shouts, and hurrying steps, shriek of tackles and 

wheels ; 
A bell through the long, hot hours, a shape in the 

sun that kneels.' 



Noon is over the world, silence is over the Bay. 
The mariners rest from their labor in shadow of 

mast and tree. 
Silence is over the soul of one, who dares not pray 
Lest the whispered want in the heart bring back 

mortality ; 
Or the seeming need of the cry, the passionate, 

pleading word, 
Break, like thunder, the crystalline walls of the 

house of the Lord. 

Dusk ! And up from the sea, the gray soars over the 

gold. 
The bark in the harbor is laden. The quivering 

canvas is up. 
But the cowled one lone on the hill-top kneels like 

a knight of old. 
Keeping his breathless vigil beside the glowing Cup. 
129 



THE VIGIL OF PADRE JUNIPERO 

And "/ believe!'''^ speak the folded hands on his 

breast; but, lo, 
The eyes that stare o'er the sea to God, they cry : 

''I know!'' 



Night ! The world is asleep and the stars sing over 

its bed. 
Soft as a song the south-wind carries the odors of 

even. 
But to one, the earth, the sea, the stars, are as 

words that are said, 
Flown, and faded forever in the infinite ether of 

Heaven. 
And God is all that was, or is, or ever can be — 
Save one white sail somewhere that climbs the rim 

of the sea. 

Once more breaks the purple bowl and spills the 

liquid light ! 
What rapture cries to the dawn ? What figures 

dance on the strand ? 
On the hill the Watchman kneels, and the sun is 

his aureole bright, 
130 



THE VIGIL OF PADRE JUNIPERO 

As he murmuring slips the beads one by one 

through his hand. 
Over the waves, the wakened, the sun flings his 

glimmering trail — 
Kindling to starry silver, a lone, white, hastening 

sail ! 



L'ENVOI 

To-night on Madagascar! shores dark hands 
Are lifted to the wide benignant sky. 

To-night where green oases with the sands 

Of Libya mate, dark hands 
Are lifted up on high ; 

Are lifted up in yearning through the bars 

That keep man's soul in exile from the stars. 

To-night, on Himalayan slopes a voice 

Over the world's white roof takes its high way. 
In parched valley, ice-imprisoned bay. 

Where'er men toil and suffer and rejoice 

Unto the stars a voice 
Leaps like the day. 

To-night in every hamlet of Cathay, 

Forgotten Orkney, lost Domingo, hark, 

A voice ! that cleaves the daylight or the dark 

In wonder or dismay. 

To-night in cities old and new 

Where'er men strive and feel the yoke, 
A voice aspires through dust and smoke 
132 



l'envoi 



Seeking the calm, untarnished blue. 
Laughter and pain, passion and sweet delight, 

Glory and wrong ! 
Hark, how they seek the friendly stars to-night 

In song ! 

Oh, lucid stream struck from the rock of Life 

By thirsty spirits, homeless, over-bowed ! 

Bright wires of sunlight in this frame of cloud, 
Given of the first departing day as he went. 

To his golden wife, 
Earth, the bereaved, bewildered, for lament 

Of tears forever rife, 
And solace eloquent. 

Oh, strange telegraphy that links man's soul 

To bird and tree, tempest and whirling sphere ! 

Tell me, what is the rose ? 

Tell me, what is the wind that blows ? 

Tell me, what is this music that I hear 

Forever heavenward roll ? 

Bright miracle of song ! 
High alchemy ! 

We hear, and are made strong, 
133 



L ENVOI 

We sing, and are made free ! 
We sing to heal, exalt, defy, 
We sing we scarce know how or why ; 

Only we know 

When the heart's barriers overflow 
That we must sing or die. 

Song ! To the stars a glorious symphony 

Blent of the million little songs goes forth ! 

The anthems of the singers of the north, 
The cry with lifted hands by tropic sea ; 

The West's loud call, the Orient's dirge 

In one glad surge 
Of heavenly melody ! 

THE END 



CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 



QC1 30 \m 



